Thankyou, lovely reviewers. Well Schermionie, you asked for quickly, you got it! I'm glad you and Shadow Valkyrie find it slightly worrying; as a good man once said, 'it scares the willies out of me!'. (Vogon Jelts is clearly made of stronger stuff than the rest of us!)

Chapter 2- While my pyjamas gently weep

'About thirty seconds ago, I heard the door open and my owner sat up very fast. We had been lying on the bed, on our side, His arms wrapped comfortingly around me. He was muttering to himself, something about tea I think, when we heard a soft sigh of pleasure and footsteps coming into the room. The sigh was almost definitely from the door. I hear them as we go round the ship, it is my only way of knowing when we pass from one room to another, except when we come into the bedroom, which He keeps quite cool, presumably so that he can keep me on all the time.

'The footsteps did not belong to the door. I understand that doors do not have feet. They belonged to His friend, a man I hold in the greatest esteem, for unlike some, he does not manhandle me, rip me from my owner's body, stuff me under the bed, or any other of a hundred humiliations I, or other dressing gowns I have known, have suffered at the hands of non-owners. It is true, however, that this is the man who originally purchased me and gave me to my owner, thus (I now know) making me one of the few live dressing gowns on Earth, and this perhaps gives him a little more respect for me. (I tried to find out about my owner from his outgoing gown, but unfortunately, it had long since died, or, shockingly, had never been alive at all, and had been but a woven facsimile of my kind).

'I can hear that he is still standing near us. After his initial movement, my owner has done nothing. I think I can comprehend this: there was a row earlier. He felt that his friend was being rather thoughtless and unsympathetic in the way he was talking about our destroyed planet of Earth. His friend did nothing to attempt to correct himself at the time, so He was left unsatisfied and quite upset. This, no doubt, is why we have been lying so still and cosy, and why the two of them now remain silent and unmoving.

'I can feel a touch upon my sleeve, a gentle caress ruffling my pile. A shiver runs up and down my warp threads. My owner jerks away. (No, please let him continue, please…). The touch is back, ah good, he is determined, he is going to speak.'

"Arthur?"

"Grrnumph!" 'That is my owner, that articulate grunt. I know he can do better than that. But there is an arm snaking round about my sleeve and the warm body of our friend is beside us, the fabric of his trousers is exchanging little pulls with my fibres. I am trapped between their arms now and it is magical.'

"Arthur. You'd be much better off talking to me."

'He has such an endearing tone, doesn't he? This friend of ours. He isn't very good at apologies. I know from listening to him that my owner would have liked one for him turning up drunk all the time back on Earth, but he never could see that anything might have upset Him. It's not even thoughtlessness really, just an alien perspective.

'Now He is starting to soften – it's amazing what a bit of a hug can achieve. I can feel His hips relaxing down towards his friend's, so that they are now sitting thigh to thigh on the bed, my sleeve still wrapped between the pair of them.

'Wait, the pressure has gone, our friend has withdrawn his arm and left the bed (Zarking fa…). Oh, no, he hasn't gone. Now a fold of my hem is trapped under each of his knees on either side of His legs and He is lying back on me. There is nothing tonight between me and Him, no pyjama top, no vest; just his soft flesh into which I sink in ecstasy. He has a mole near the centre of his back and I can wrap my individual fibres around it if I am careful. He doesn't like it, he says it stings when he takes me off, but it gives me pleasure, so that's what I'm doing now.

'Even as I am attempting this delicate move, Hands are running over my breast pockets. Ooooh, a frisson: our friend is tweaking my braid, what bliss! His other hand is playing with the inner edge of my lapel, his knuckles brushing His skin beneath me, his wrist brushing up and down my folded edge. I know the wear in that patch is going to be terrific if he carries on like this. I don't mind though, I am being massaged, rolled and pressed by the sensuous movements of my owner's body as this man, our friend, continues his ministrations.

'My cord is being undone. I love this bit: the slide back across His flesh, His groans as my rough weave drags across his hard nipples. I wave goodbye to the pyjama bottoms; unless something goes wrong, they'll be off soon. I used to leave earlier, but I think this man respects the bond between myself and my owner, so I am sometimes allowed to stay the whole time, as long as I don't get in the way.

'Oh…wait, no, I think we've hit a snag. That stubborn streak I so admire in my owner, listen:'

"Ford, I don't want to. You've upset me, and I don't really want to anyway. You see, I'm still not really happy with the idea, with you being a man and so on, and I thought maybe it would be nice if for once we could just talk and, well, I know it might be a strange concept for you, having seen how, erm, easily excitable you are on a regular basis, but I don't like to be constantly on the watch for you. I'm not that sort of man. You go on and on about girls, and then you come running to me when there is a perfectly good female on board, not that I would be at all happy about you trying to seduce her. Zaphod is bad enough competition. Okay, I know I'm your friend, but I have never considered that that means I have to sleep with you. Just because my planet was destroyed it doesn't mean that…"

'He's been cut off. By the closeness of the press on my breast fabric, I would say he is being kissed. Just as well. He does go on a bit when he's nervous. He needs to learn about taking breaths, shorter sentences and a bit less chat overall. The pressure is being eased, a rumbling of breath, sounds like irritation,'

"Arthur, what does it matter?"

"Eh?" (Articulate as ever)

"I happen to be exceptionally fond of you. Okay, if Zaph wasn't around, maybe I would try for Trillian, she's a sweet girl, but if you knew Zaphod like I do, you'd know why that would be a bad idea with him here."

'Our friend is running his hands softly up and down my sides, I don't think either of them have noticed, but it is sending my weave into spasm. Our friend is going on, I sincerely hope he wins my owner round quickly or I'm going to pass out. There's only so much pleasure a humble dressing gown can take.'

"Arthur, be reasonable, I saved your life…uh-uh" (shushing my owner) "I know you didn't ask me to, but I did. I did it because I couldn't imagine leaving without you. Now when I expend that much energy chasing someone who seems almost pathologically opposed to rescue round the countryside while he moans on about unimportant things, I'm usually hoping for some return. I don't think it's selfish. What you seem to forget is that you do actually enjoy it. I can't measure up to your particular set of Earth standards all the time, because even after fifteen years, I still can't remember them all and I am now doing my best to forget them. Be friendly and let's have a fun evening together."

"The fact remains, Ford, that you are a man."

"You're stating the zarking obvious again Arthur. Except that you're missing something even more obvious: I'm an alien, I'm not human. I'd have thought that having got past that little hurdle, which, I might add, a lot of life-forms never do, the gender issue would be a minor point. What's the difference? You're not on Earth now pal. Three-quarters of the galaxy doesn't even recognise the distinction. So be nice and get your zarking kit off." (That's the spirit, you tell Him dear fellow.) 'Has he won? I ache to know…'

"I'm not taking my gown off." (May the blessings of Holy Zarquon be upon you, my owner, but don't put him off now.) He sounds terribly petulant again, let's hope he hasn't ruined things. "I am in need of comfort, and since there's no tea…" 'I think he might be pushing his luck now – how much more comfort can a man get?'

"Alright, alright. Keep the gown on, can we lose the rest? Please?" 'Our friend sounds quite exasperated, but at least I shall be in attendance.'

"Mmnmf." 'Ah, we're back to the height of our expressive powers again, I hear. It's hardly surprising though – his pyjama bottoms are indeed leaving the scene. I can hear them sobbing gently, they never get to stay, it's very hard on them. They trail past my bottom hem, clinging feebly to my fraying strands of piping as my owner arches and wriggles to let them go, sending further shock waves up and down my fibres. Now I am being pressed even harder, the full length of our friend is lying on top of us, his weight barely lifted by his elbows pinning my shoulders to the bed. He is smiling at my owner. I know this in a way I do not fully understand. In the normal way of things, I cannot know when a person is smiling, although I may catch an air of their emotions if they are close by. When our friend smiles however, it is a clear as the beating of my owner's heart. I feel it as a sensation of elation that threatens to burst my fibres; yet it is always coupled with the strangest premonition that I am about to be eaten; although this has never, as yet, come to pass.

'The smile has taken effect, my sleeves have been raised and they brush in quick little jumps down the front of our friend, then part to rub down his arms as his shirt trails its way across me to the floor to join the pyjamas. Are we to do trousers now?

'No. We have been waylaid. I can feel emotions building in my owner, the sort of desperate emotions that cry for release and forbid rationality. His heart rate has increased significantly and a gentle sweat is settling into my weave. I fear I shall be soaked tonight. My sleeves are up around our friend's back, rubbing and bumping against each other, a grumble is coming…wait for it…'

"Arthur, that wool is really scratchy, you know?" (Told you!).

"Tough. You started this…" 'My owner mumbles, almost incoherently; it sounds as if he has a mouthful of skin.'

'Ah, here we go. His arm is moving, my sleeve trapped between the two of them, while his arm muscles ripple in a familiar action. A few seconds, a few muttered curses, and our friend's trousers are heading for the weeping laundry pile (They are so wracked with sobs as they leave, that the descent gives them hiccups and it is all I can hear over the muffles moans and sighs of my two companions).

'Now all I feel is skin. There is skin in me, around me, on me. The very thought makes my double-thickness cuffs roll themselves back over my sleeves. My left sleeve is running over our friend's back again, despite his protests, pulling him tightly in to my owner, but my right sleeve is between them again, squashed flat between slickening, writhing flesh. Our friend's hands are roaming again. He is stroking the back of my collar while my owner moans softly. His other hand is delving between me and my owner, rubbing my pile away from His skin and exploring the texture I have left there. I can feel my senses starting to heighten in line with those of my owner: between us, we now have barely enough sense to converse with a pillow case. What is more, the waves of feeling and urgency I am receiving so clearly from our Betelgeusian blanket, only serve to enhance my joy, so I squirm with pleasure beneath them and neither of them notice, they are too caught up in themselves.

'The front panels of my skirts have fallen to the sides with the rising of my owner's knees. I can feel points of extreme pressure on them as the closeness is lost higher up on my breast pocket. There are mutterings and gentle croonings to be heard, but I can barely listen, let alone comprehend. My owners hips are moving, my pile just below my waistband is being flattened, first this way, now that as he moves. There are hands clutching my lapels, pulling so hard that I know, if I were not carried away with the ecstasy of it all, I would be in pain. The movements are increasing in speed, and now I can hear, at last I can hear. My owner is panting, and our pleasure is so intense that my cord is breaking its binding at one end. As He shrieks, screaming our loving friend's name out high over the wailing of the fallen clothing, my cord springs with wild abandon from its restraints, exploding itself with exuberant elasticity into three wavy strands of burgundy, brown and cream. Our friend collapses upon me, that smile back on his face as he snuggles it into my left-front panel, and in the interests of self-preservation, I decide to pass out for a while.'


'I come to in certain knowledge of being exceptionally happy. I discover why this is so as I become more aware of myself. I am still on my owner, he lies flat down the whole of my length, but my front panels do not touch him. I pride myself that, whilst I am a superb fit for my owner, I am also of a high quality and generous cut. When he wears me, my front panels overlap substantially. I am therefore exactly the sort of dressing gown you might choose if you wished to accommodate a second person in there with you. I am therefore thrilled to find that this happy accident of quality control has been seized by my owner and his friend and I now encompass the pair of them, warm comfortable feelings emanating from their minds, while dampness seeps into my lower hem and sweat renders me almost insensible.

'Tomorrow, Zarquon willing, I shall visit the laundry. However, I have been with my owner a while and I realise that the shifty and embarrassed mood I imagine he will be in tomorrow may preclude such a jaunt. I'll not think about it now, but lie still and envelop them. They are nearly asleep, but they will still have the last word I fear, in mumbling, contented tones:'

"Arthur…?"

"Mrrgh?"

"How…can you…sleep in such (yawn)… scratchy wool?"

"Gnniphhh"


(At this point, the evening's commentary suddenly ended as the gown was removed in the blink of an eye and replaced by the much softer, more sleep-friendly quilt. Unfortunately, it fell to the other side of the bed, so the pyjama top, which had been recording the report, was unable to ask it to illuminate any of the more obscure points. Gaps in the narrative are therefore consequences of the normal actions of sentient beings in a normally probable universe, and not faults attributable to the gown, the pyjamas, the shirt, trousers or humanoid life-forms, or indeed any being present at the time. Complaints regarding the lack of graphic detail should be directed to Arthur's underpants, which being blessed with the sense of sight (and precious little else), could easily have filled the pyjamas in with the extra information from their excellent vantage point on the chair. Don't mind the slippers, they're all slightly daffy anyway.)

(And the pillows are no better…)


What will happen tommorrow when Arthur wakes up? Will he still love his dressing gown, or will its close involvement in tonight's activities make it too worrying to wear? Will it get a wash? Will the pyjama bottoms ever speak to it again? Will Ford get incredibly horny two nights in a row, and if he does, will Arthur be able to resist him?

To be honest, I really don't know, no-one's told me yet. Inspire me with reviews and I'll have a hunt around for the muse ; )